John Thelwall (1764-1834)

The Crisis

It comes--the awful hour!--compatriots dear,

Who oft, confiding in my honest zeal

And keen attachments to the public weal,

Bent to my artless theme the partial ear;

Now search my breast with scrutiny severe:

That breast which, frequent in the swelling pride

Of youthful ardour, the stern threats defied

Of distant danger:

mark if now base fear

Palsy its boasted future--or if now

(Forgetful of the truths so oft upheld)

Abject beneath the imperious foot I bow

Of terror-vested power--suppliant!--depressed!

Or one emotion feel, but what the breast

Of Hampden or of Sidney might have swelled.

How far, ye nymphs and dryads! must we stray

Beyond your once-loved haunts, ere we again

May meet you in your freshness? My young day

Has oft-time seen me in your sylvan train

Culling the wild-wood flowers, where now remain

Nor brake nor hedgerow, nor clear bubbling stream

To feed their fragrance, or the fervid ray

To mitigate; but to the flaunting beam

The domes of tasteless opulence display,

Shadeless, their glaring fronts; while the pure rill

That wont to parley, or by noon or night

With Phoebus' or with Dian's softer light,

Now through some drain obscene creeps dark and still,

To sweep the waste of luxury away.